Absolution

Absolution

A.C.S. Bird

I veer into the Catholic prep school parking lot
too fast.
My first-generation Prius adopts a decorous pace,
past Porsches and Jeeps
in 2021 models.
I sidle up to the curb.
The principal watches.
My Protestant daughter pulls up her mask
on her fifth day of school
heaves her book bag onto her shoulder
and I am a freshman once more
awed by the proliferation of buildings and hallways
never in the same place twice
pseudo-confident underclassmen
perspiring in fall sweaters
and almost-adult seniors
sauntering in sync.
The principal steps up with measured tread.
I brace for the gentle remonstration—
Please be mindful, ma’am, of the safety of our students—
and avert my eyes.
I kiss my daughter’s forehead.
She scurries off-kilter through the courtyard
as the last bell chimes and the intercom crackles
and Father Theo summons us to prayer:
“Let us remember—”
The principal looks past me and intones
“We stand in the presence of holy God.”
He lowers his gaze
lifts his hand.
I leave the curb
for the deserted lane
and commence my day
absolved.

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A.C.S. Bird
Poet & Gardener

Amanda is a writer and editor living outside Eugene, Oregon, with her husband, teen daughter, twelve chickens, and nine pigeons.

Photography by Daniel Mingook Kim